


The Right Thing

by Liena67



Series: From the end a new beginning [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adlock, Dead Sherlock, F/M, Karachi, Sherlock Texting, Texting, irene texting, sherlock fake dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 01:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14367519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liena67/pseuds/Liena67
Summary: This short story was not actually written as the first, but chronologically in my series, the first is to be understood. It's a short in three chapters where I imagined what happened one night in Karachi, when Sherlock saved Irene, and what happened during the two years he made to all people believe he was dead. An emotional journey that begins and ends with text messages.“He can't help but notice how her eyes now look tired. She was a prisoner for days, she risked dying, but she is standing there, standing proud and strong as ever…”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to glHollow for the translation of the first chapter

She hoped, with all her heart she hoped until the last minute that this moment would not come. Because what she read in his soul, in his heart, it seemed real. Or perhaps, it was only a projection of her own desires, the deepest ones, those that only now, one step from the end, she manages to admit in their totality to herself.

Irene on her knees feels the cold of the desert entering her bones, despite the tunic and the chador, that leaves her face exposed only. Around her, only the lights of the cars illuminate this night, which is going to be her last night. She hears them talking to each other in a language she barely knows as they prepare her execution. It's over, it's all over. Every game, every hope, every desire is about to end now at the hands of a handful of terrorists. She does not cry, because she doesn't want to give them her tears, and even then what good would it do? Nothing but to lose her dignity, and no, they will not bring that away from her. She has a few minutes of life ahead of her and doesn't want to waste them with useless tears. She looks up at one of her executioners on her right and, with the few words of their language that she knows, asks him to send a last message. The man looks at her and, without saying anything, gives her the phone, because one last wish is never denied to a convicted. Irene takes her phone and writes a message without shaking. A single short message. One last thought. A final greeting. Maybe he'll understand that he does not have to feel responsible, because all this, is only the final consequence of all her choices, the curtain that falls on her life, of which she is the only director.

 **The Woman:** Goodbye Mr. Holmes

Irene sends the message and returns the phone to the man on her right, while on her left the executioner is now ready. She closes her eyes ready to die and in a moment, the space of a second, the span of a short sound, Irene is reborn. Her eyes widen in surprise, it can't be, maybe she is already dead and this is the last dream. But everything is so vivid and on his left the executioner looks at her with those eyes that she could not forget, even in a thousand years or a thousand lives.

"When I say run... run," Sherlock whispers, from under his tunic, that leaves only his eyes uncovered.

Irene looks back in front of her, trying to hold back a smile and in a moment, it's chaos. The scimitar that was to behead her is the death sentence of his executioners.

Sherlock moves quickly and forcefully, striking two of the closest terrorists aided by surprise, while Irene pulls the gun from the man's belt on her right, hitting him to prevent him from firing with his machine gun. She gets up and throws the gun to Sherlock, who, scimitar abandoned, hits the other men near the cars, so stunned that they haven't managed to get to their weapons in time. From the nearby shack, where they held her captive, voices can be heard of the other terrorists, alerted by the shots and screams.

"Run! The gray car! Now!” Sherlock screams, taking the camera with which one of the terrorists resumed the scene of execution.

Irene doesn't need to be told twice and runs to the car, followed by Sherlock that continues to fire at the men who begin to run after them. They jump in the car, the keys are already in the ignition, and Sherlock frees his face from the turban starting the engine. The tires leave imprints when he makes the car speed up suddenly, while some gunshots manage to hit the vehicle, thankfully only on its side. The car accelerates and fleas away and Irene turns to see the men behind them hop in other cars, but none of them move, and after a few moments a series of explosions light up the night of the desert. Irene goes back to looking ahead, her breath is short as is that of Sherlock. The adrenaline flows strong and mixes to thousands of emotions. They remain silent until the flames behind their backs have disappeared altogether.

"Where are we going?" she manages to ask after a while, looking at him just from the corner of the eye.  
"A small town not far from Karachi. We will stop in a hotel for tonight. Tomorrow morning I'll leave to return to London and you will embark towards Greece" Sherlock says, pulling aside near some bushes behind which is hidden another car "but for now we'll change clothes and car... we can’t present ourselves like this" he says stopping the vehicle and closing the engine.

Without saying anything, they both get off and Sherlock takes a duffle bag from the parked car, from which he pulls out western clothes for her, simple jeans and a sweater with a jacket.

"Change, so you will not draw any eyes," he says, giving her clothes, then turning around while taking off his own tunic, under which he wears pants and a shirt.

Irene still feels the adrenaline run strong in her body and changes while her thoughts are still confused, surprised. A few minutes before she thought she was going to die and now she feels life rushing through her veins.

After a while, they both get in the new car and Sherlock leaves quickly.

"In the dashboard are our documents" he says after almost half an hour of silent travel, without taking his eyes off the road and keeping the speed constant and high, as if those men were still chasing them.  
Irene takes the documents and opens them, looking at them for a moment, and cannot hold back a smile.

"Are we husband and wife?" she asks, with that particular ironic and vaguely sensual tone, returning to a more regular heart rhythm now that the danger of imminent death seems to belong to the past.

"Miss Adler... a couple of Westerners who stop in a hotel is certainly safer than two singles, in this case" Sherlock answers, sighing and throwing her a look.

"I get it... we're back to our respective roles, I see," Irene replies smiling, noting how Sherlock has returned to being detached and formal, as if this could raise an immediate wall. But for her the wall has crumbled completely at that precise moment, because everything takes on a different meaning when you really think you're dying.

Sherlock does not answer and the silence falls again between them as the car quickly crosses the road to the new destination. When they reach the hotel, it is late at night. They come down from the car silently, and still in silence, after checking in, they go up to the right floor and to the reserved room. When they enter, Sherlock puts the bag that he took from the car on a bench. He opens it and from inside he takes clean clothes, that he will use to leave, and then places them on a chair.

"Here are a series of clothes, money, a notebook with a secure address in Greece, a new phone and a ticket to embark. In the apartment in Greece, you will find the data of a new bank account, where I managed to transfer a good part of your liquid assets... what you had on a secret account that my brother didn't manage to find. From then on, I advise you for your safety to change your identity again through the contact marked on this notebook. I will make sure, through this video and some contacts I have here, to make everyone believe that Irene Adler is dead" Sherlock explains almost in one breath.

"You thought of everything," Irene tells him, unable to take her eyes off him. Because it is true, he has thought of every detail, a meticulous and detailed plan to save her and give her a new life, a life however far from him.

"It is a habit of mine" he replies simply and can't help but notice how her eyes now look tired. She was a prisoner for days, she risked dying, but she is standing there, standing proud and strong as ever, but the tension and tiredness are evident.

"In the bathroom is a bathrobe, towels, shampoo and even a pajama" he says after a while.

Irene does not answer and after a few moments nods. Without saying anything, she turns and reaches the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock waits for the door to close and only then gives a long sigh. The plan worked, everything went smoothly. Shortly he will return to London where his ordinary life awaits him. He hasn't thought of anything else in these last days that's not how to implement this plan. He did not think about why he is doing this but only about how. And he does not even want to think about it now. He only knew he had to do it, he had to save her, keep her alive, far from him but alive. The room has only a large double bed but he has no intention of sleeping, the adrenaline is still running strong and will do so until he gets on the plane to London. He hears the sound of the shower and sits in a chair near the window, checking on his phone for any trouble. No news about a desert fire or terrorists found dead or injured. Good. His contacts have cleaned up the area as planned. He checks his mail through a secure server to prevent Mycroft from getting his current location. Nobody knows he's here and nobody has to know. From the bathroom he can hear the sound of the hairdryer and after about ten minutes the door opens.

Irene comes out dressed in the pajamas she found in the bathroom, a simple jacket and a pair of trousers. With her hair falling on bare shoulders, she crosses the room, approaching the bed. Irene looks at him sitting in his chair, barely lit by the lamps on the nightstands and the moonlight coming from the window.

"I guess you're going to sit there all night... right?" she asks him with a tired smile.

"Exactly" he replies, observing her as she moves. There's something wrong with her. She looks tired and that’s normal, but too tense, with stiff shoulders, non-fluid movements. Now that the adrenaline is waning it's normal for the body to suffer but something in its movements alarms him.

"You're hurt” His is not a question but a statement and instinctively he has switched again to showing his basic humanity. He gets up and approaches her.

"What's on your back?” He asks her now, having identified the culprit of the suffering that she was trying to hide.

"It's nothing... go sit back down... I'm fine" Irene's voice is tense but calm at the same time.

"You're not well... I can miss many things about you but not this... your body does not lie... let me see" Sherlock tells her with a determined tone

"Are you asking me to undress, Sherlock?" Irene asks him with her ironic, mischievous tone.

"Don't be silly and let me see where you're hurt," he replies, sighing heavily.

"How bossy... a change of role, Sherlock?" she asks again, smiling.

Sherlock sighs and does not answer, pointing to her back.

"I don’t think you want to see Sherlock," Irene finally tells him, and the tone of her voice is now totally changed. Not joking anymore, she's not playing, looks at him seriously.

Sherlock still does not answer and again points to her back peremptorily.

"You will not like it," she says, sighing, and without adding anything else, she opens the buttons of her pajama jacket, pulling it out slowly, as if she were struggling, then turning around and showing her back.

Sherlock looks down and almost chokes on his own breath.

The natural candor of her skin has almost completely disappeared because her back is a tangle of deep red marks, some of which are so deep that they still have traces of blood. He understands in a moment that they have nothing to do with her profession. They must have tortured and flogged her for days before the execution. His breath falters and he feels a dull and implacable anger clouding his brain. If he had known before he wouldn’t have killed them, he would’ve slaughtered them painfully and slowly.

"I'm... sorry" he can only say, trying to control his voice.

"It's not your fault... it’s some of the risks that a bad girl like me can run into," Irene replies, looking over her shoulder. "Do not worry... they'll disappear with time" she adds with a slight smile.

"I'm not worried," he tells her and thinks it's true. He is not worried about her, he knows she is a strong woman who can overcome anything, but he is furious, a blind fury that sighs and pushes itself into a room in his mental palace, regaining control of his breathing. He looks at her for some other moments, then turns and takes his backpack from the closet.

"Lay down, we have to disinfect and dress them, fortunately I brought with me the first aid in case of injuries" the voice is now calm again while taking disinfectants and gauze.

Irene nods and, without speaking, she lies down on the bed, hugs her pillow and with a long sigh rests her head on one side. She watches Sherlock approach the bed and sit by her side. For a moment they look at each other, then she closes her eyes and lets him work in silence. She feels his hands brush her hair aside and bites her lip when the disinfectant burns her wounds. She clenches her hands around the pillow but doesn't make a sound. Only the fatigued breath and the tense body betray the pain she's experiencing. But she does not scream and does not cry. Didn't do it even when for days they tormented her back to wash away her sins before the execution, as they always loved to repeat.

"Did they..." Sherlock's voice is almost a whisper, while the question remains suspended in the air.

"No... they were fundamentalists... they would never have mixed their blood with a sinner like me... being a bad girl in some cases can also be an advantage" Irene answers, trying to joke to dampen the obvious tension.

Sherlock does not respond and continues to disinfect the wounds using a hospital healing salve.  
"Tomorrow they will not bleed anymore. They will still hurt but there is no possibility they will be noticed under the clothes and they'll be alright for a few days. Best to leave the back bare at least until morning. When you'll arrive in Greece, the contact that I left you can also get a doctor,” he finally says, picking up the gauze soiled with blood that he closes in an envelope along with the various disinfectants.

Irene does not answer, suddenly the tiredness and the tension have prevailed and on the last words he has told her she has sunk into a deep sleep.

Sherlock returns to the bed and watches her sleep. Silently he turns off the lamps and reaches the armchair where he sits, still looking at her. Thoughts start to crowd, looking for answers but he drives them away with determination. He does not want to ask himself why he has risked his own life to come and save her, this is a question he does not want to ask himself, a question that requires an answer that he is not ready to give. And he doesn't even want ask the why of that last message, a greeting to the person who was the cause of her defeat, her upcoming execution, of those terrible wounds.

Breathing slowly he continues looking at her, focusing only on the next moves, on the next day's departure, on the video to give Mycroft through his sources, the beheaded body of a woman to find, the analysis of the fake DNA to be delivered, all that it takes to keep her safe.

Irene sleeps but her sleep is no longer serene. Her breathing is changing, it increases, muscles tense in her sleep.

Sherlock gets up as he approaches and sees the pupils move quickly under closed eyes. She’s having a nightmare.

Irene suddenly wakes up hyperventilating and giving a strangled cry. Eyes wide open as if she doesn't know where she is.

"It was just a nightmare... it's all right," he says in an uncertain voice, not sure how to behave. Irene looks at him blinking and nods trying to return to a more calm breath pattern but when Sherlock is about to turn around and get away, she grabs for a hand.

She does not say anything. She does not ask for anything. She only looks at him. Sherlock would like to get back in his chair, he shuts himself in his mental palace, away from her immediately, run the farthest away as possible. But he doesn't do any of this, nods and without saying anything, lies down on the bed beside her. One arm folded over the head and the other stretched out with his hand intertwined with hers. He closes his eyes and hears her breath return to normal and then become heavy when sleep again reaches her. At that moment he comes back to the image of her that evening in Baker Street. She was so different from how he had seen her until now, so genuine. For that he had wanted to grab her wrist, to understand, to have confirmation of a sincerity that in that moment he saw in her eyes. And now that her sudden fragility surprises him again. This woman is a perpetual mystery, like a puzzle, the most complicated puzzle he's ever met. He closes his eyes and let the thoughts fade into a light sleep until the first light of dawn wakes him up completely. Irene sleeps serenely at his side, the marks on her back are still almost as red as fire, but the salve has dried them. Slowly he moves his hand still loosely held into hers and without waking her he gets up. He takes clean clothes and goes to the bathroom to change. Back in the room and after checking his backpack he takes it with him back to the bed again. Irene still sleeps. He looks at her for a few more moments like he was memorizing every thing about her to close in that room of his mental building that he has already started to create. He sighs and without making a sound he gets out of the room.

As soon as the door closes, Irene opens her eyes. She looks at the side of the bed where until recently he was lying and slowly caressing it still feels the warmth on the sheets. She did not want to say hello, it would have been too difficult right now. She sighs and remains still for at least twenty minutes. Eventually she gets up carefully, feeling the wounds on her back sting. She approaches the bag and takes the phone that he has left. She turns it on and dials a number that by she now knows by heart. She saves it in the contacts and then sends a message.

Sherlock has returned the car he had rented and is now calling for a taxi to go to the airport. He'll have to make several stops to return to London and this will allow him to change identity several times before returning to his, so as to not leave any trace of his journey. They are all convinced that he is in Edinburgh for a case and nobody will suspect anything. A few minutes after getting on the taxi, a message arrives on his phone and immediately after another.

 **Number unknown:** Thank you  
**Number unknown:** ... let's have dinner together?

Sherlock reads the messages and cannot help smiling. He saves the number, replacing the previous one on her contact and then replying.

 **Sherlock:** you are an extremely stubborn woman.SH

After a while that particular ringtone warns of the arrival of a new message.

 **The Woman:** I know... have a good trip Sherlock.

Sherlock reads the message, smiles and closes the phone. He does not know if and when he'll meet her again, he does not know what all this means nor wants to know, he only knows that it was the right thing to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Tel Aviv is a city where she could also live there, rebuild a life, a profession, or maybe simply live on income and investment that has always been able to do well. The marks on her back have gone from bright red to pale pink and will go away with time. Now after the time that has passed from those terrible days of imprisonment, they do not even hurt her anymore.

Irene opens the laptop she bought the day before and, sitting in the kitchen of her apartment, is preparing to read the latest news as she finishes breakfast. She waited until now before buying a PC and a SIM to connect to the internet, so she can read the UK online newspapers. She still has to keep a low profile as much as possible, even if now everyone, except Sherlock, believe she is dead. But not knowing what happens in what she still considers her country, what cases he is facing, in the long run has made her nervous. She then opens the laptop and connects first to John's blog. There is one of his posts as the last news but it’s a single sentence, that leaves her very perplexed.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes_

She is still watching for a few moments that sentence, with a sense of nausea that even she can’t explain. She closes the blog and opens the page of a newspaper and her face immediately loses color. It is not possible. She opens other newspapers and they all repeat the same news incessantly. It's not possible, I do not believe it. Irene can’t repeat anything else in her mind, while reading the articles that talk about the death of Sherlock, his suicide, the accusations against him, which is now referred to as an impostor, accused of having created the same cases that he then resolved. Impostor, suicide. No, it's not true, none of this is true. Now she wakes up and this will be the worst nightmare of her life, because she can’t believe it. She knows that he is not an impostor and also knows that he could never commit suicide. Another article shows the photo of Jim Moriarty, but in the article he has another name and tells of being an actor, paid by Sherlock to play the character of Moriarty, created by the same Sherlock.

Irene closes her eyes. Damn him. Damn that crazy criminal who must have designed all this. But Sherlock cannot be dead. He would never have killed himself, never. Sherlock does not care what the world thinks of him, why should he kill himself? Rather, he would find a way to bring the truth back to light. No, he is alive. He must be alive. But now Irene sees those photos, his body on the floor, his hair, his bloody face and the face of John devastated by pain, and she can recognize when a person lies. John is not lying. Sherlock is dead.

The truth of what she is now watching makes her suddenly rise from the chair that falls to the ground behind her. The breath is missing, the air is missing. Why…why he did it. The only reason he could have done it is to protect someone he cares about. Because she knows, Sherlock risked his life to save her life. But knowing why he did it does not change the fact that she lacks air, she can’t breathe. She never had panic attacks in her life, not even when she thought she was one step away from death, but the thought of living in a world where he is no longer, taking her off the air. With a scream of rage she resumes breathing, hurling her laptop across the room. She closes her eyes and slowly lets herself go and sits down on the ground. Breathe deeply and lets silent tears dispel that dull pain that she is now feeling.

Irene does not know how many days have passed since she read the news. She is closed in the house since then, on the kitchen table there are still the dirty dishes of breakfast that has not finished anymore. She does not eat, her stomach is closed and she only compels herself to drink, to keep that minimum of vital functions. She does not intend to let herself go completely, she does not want, in a sense she owes it to him.

Now she is lying on the couch, she does not sleep, she cannot sleep, even if the tiredness sometimes has the upper hand. The lights are off and it's dark at night. Sleep is about to reach her, she closes her eyes, exhausted, tired as she has never felt before. She knows she will recover, she has always recovered from everything, sooner or later she will get up from this coach and find a way to move forward. But not now. Now she just wants to have never read the news, never bought that damn laptop.

Suddenly, a sound coming from her phone makes her eyes widen. A message. But nobody knows this number. No one except him. The heart starts beating so hard it almost scares her. She gets up from the coach and reaches the phone she had left on and in charge, she does not even know why. Suddenly the hand trembles and sweats.

 _"Calm down Irene, do not fool yourself, it will be someone who has the wrong number,"_ she says to herself, picking up the phone and looking at the display.

 

 **Number unknown** : I'm not dead

Irene blinks, reading the message several times. She does not know what to think. She is afraid of believing what her heart now desires to be true and not a dream.

 **Number unknown** : but we will not go out for dinner

Irene also reads the second message and begins to laugh, a nervous, liberating laughter, while the tears are still on her face.

 **Number unknown** : I will be busy and unreachable for a long time

Irene also reads the new message, now finding a normal breath while the heart, relieved, returns to have a regular heartbeat.

 **Number unknown** : this number will be deactivated in five minutes

Irene reads the last message and sighing writes a reply message

 **The Woman:** four messages in a few minutes... I'm flattered. We will postpone our dinner... I can be very patient

 **Number unknown** : stubborn more than patient. Five messages are the best I'll ever get to

Irene reads the last message and smiles again. She does not answer. She knows that now he will have closed the phone and deactivated the number or destroyed the sim. She does not know why he staged all this, why he even makes John believe he was dead. He must have some plan in mind. Let her know that he is alive does not disturb his plans. Basically, this was just a dialogue between two ghosts. She lays the phone on the table, she could also turn it off because she has understood that it will remain silent for a long time, but she leaves it still lit and in charge. She turns to the kitchen, turns on the light and calmly starts to settle.

Now suddenly she's hungry again.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Eighteen months. It's been almost two years since Sherlock made the whole world believe he had died, throwing himself off that roof. Irene in recent months has tried to understand how it could have done and the hypotheses were the most varied. More logical, however, than those published on a blog by a series of avid fans, convinced he had saved. The good name of Sherlock has long since recovered and he has now returned to his life for just over a week. Irene has followed all his movements. In fact, during these months she understood what his plan was, when she started reading the news of men and women in some way related to the Moriarty network that mysteriously disappeared or were arrested. Names that say nothing to most people, but not to her, who knew many of them. Here was his plan. He was dismantling that net piece by piece, while the whole world believed him dead.

Irene looks at the pictures of Sherlock in the newspaper as she drinks her drink sitting at one of the tables of a fine Vienna venue. Now that the network has been completely dismantled, only a few people want her dead and so she started moving more freely, albeit carefully, traveling around Europe. Who knows how he feels now that he has returned to his life in London, now that life has gone on without him. John no longer lives in Baker Street and from what she read has a girlfriend, a new life.

Irene sighs and decides that the time has come. She looks at the time, eleven o'clock at night, at this time Mrs. Hudson definitely sleeps and he is not following cases, he will most likely be home alone. She picks up the phone and composes a message hoping he has restored his old number and phone.

Sherlock is lying on the bed, the light in the room is off. He is not sleepy and is still dressed. They have been hard, difficult, lonely months. But he had to do it. To protect his friends and keep them safe once and for all. He never suffered loneliness in his life but eighteen months without even his identity, were hard, eighteen months running after the adepts of the network, fighting. Often without eating or sleeping, infiltrating the net to flush out every small spider of that evil and enormous canvas. But now it's him again, back in Baker Street, all like before, or almost. In reality, the world has gone on and it is as if he had lost two years of life. He feels like a stranger, a stranger asking for asylum in his own life.

He closes his eyes sighing, perhaps going to his mental palace can make him recover more lucidity. It will be enough, he just has to avoid entering that room, that room with her name on the door, that room that in these eighteen months has frequented too often, to soothe that sense of loss of its own identity. But he does not have time to enter his mental palace, because his phone emits a sound, that sound.

Sherlock opens his eyes, turns and slowly takes the phone from the bedside table.

 

**The Woman:** welcome back... have you had fun?

Sherlock reads the message and runs away a smile but does not answer.

**The Woman:** There are some details that I’m curious to know. Let's have dinner together?

Sherlock shakes his head and composes a reply message.

**Sherlock:** I see that with time you have not lost your stubborn habits. S.H.

**The Woman:** coherence is the virtue of good girls... the stubbornness of the bad girls... if you want during dinner I can explain in detail the differences.

Sherlock reads the last message smiling but does not answer and knows that he will not receive any more messages for now. He closes the phone and places it on the bedside table again.

He closes his eyes and sighing thinks that now, for some strange reason, he finally feels at home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to divide this short story into three chapters because they are three different periods and settings, even if the last two are short.   
> In reality it was supposed to be an oneshot but long an entire night I used to write it, it became something else.  
> I wish you enjoyed and, for those who have not yet done so, I hope you will continue this journey and this series while having fun with the life and adventures of these fantastic characters, of which I am immensely in love.


End file.
